


Shot In The Dark

by LeslieFish



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-18
Updated: 2004-02-18
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:35:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieFish/pseuds/LeslieFish
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	Shot In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Shot In The Dark by Leslie Fish

**NOTE: There are slight slash overtones in a few sections, although no action and is relevant to past story.**

_Shot In The Dark_

By Leslie Fish 

* * *

They were no more than thirty yards behind him. Four of them, in pattering track-shoes that made a soft but characteristic sound on the concrete. He couldn't yet tell what weapons they carried, but it was best to assume that at least one of them had a gun. His Kevlar vest would handle that, or a club; the chainmail shirt over it would deal with any blades these street-punks were likely to carry. None of them were Immortals; they wouldn't think of swords. 

Time to speed up now, act a little nervous, like the near-oblivious Uptown Dude – skinny white boy, barely had a clue – that they thought he was. Measure the distance to the dark mouth of the approaching alley. Yes, he'd make it handily at this pace. Stride, stride, stride— 

Now. 

Methos whipped into the alley, opening the eye he'd kept shut for the last five minutes so it could see well in the darkness. Yes, there: the chain-link fence he'd noted while scouting here by daylight – and before it a dumpster and some loosely-piled crates: perfect. Duck behind the crates, like the fool they expected. Draw the pistol and sword. Wait, wait- 

Yes, here they came: running, all pretense of stealth abandoned, giggling like children as they saw the fence and knew his retreat was cut off. The biggest of them, clearly the leader, lumbered like an ox: no grace, no finesse, waving the knife in his fist as if it were a hatchet – a stupid thug and no more. Almost a righteous deed, to relieve the world of him. To his right skittered and danced his lieutenant, likewise wagging a knife, motions jerky and ragged: a coke-head or meth-freak – fast, but uncoordinated. The two trailing close behind – one with another knife, one with only a sharpened screwdriver – were fat and lubbery, simple bully-boys who intimidated with size alone. No problem, no contest. 

This would be almost too easy. 

'Come on out, dude,' crooned the leader. 'You got nowhere to go. Just give us the money and maybe, maybe, we'll let you walk away.' 

The lieutenant's jittery giggle put the lie to that, if anyone had believed it. 

Methos shoved the pistol back in its holster, knowing he wouldn't need it for the likes of these. He rose to his feet slowly, letting them see him, trying to look frightened and hesitant. He mustn't let them guess the truth too soon, or they might think to run. Hand under the coat, as if reaching for a wallet. Measure their positions in number of steps, calculate where they'd move, remember that he'd be slowed a trifle by his body-armor and the meth-freak at least would be fast. Fake a shiver. Look _frightened,_ dammit! 

And here came the leader, swaggering close, left hand outstretched for the money. 

'Speed it up, dude,' he demanded, grinning. 'I got six inches of cold steel here, says you better hand it over fast.' 

Oh, this was too priceless to resist! Could he get all the words out while he drew and lunged? 

'I'll see your six – and raise you forty.' 

The sword was actually shorter than forty inches – more like thirty-five – but the phrase was too perfect to improve. 

By the last syllable, he'd rammed a good eight inches of the point into the leader's solar plexus. 

Now turn – fast, hip leading for momentum – yank the sword free and swing toward the meth-freak, the next most dangerous. Come up from below, high enough to cut through a blocking arm— 

But no arm was raised. The sword went through the punk's neck and took off his head as cleanly as if he'd been an Immortal. Ah, practice for the real thing! 

The leader was still standing, frozen. A quick return swing to the back of his near knee dropped him before the lieutenant's head – and knife – struck the ground, but Methos was already leaping past him – toward the remaining two thugs. 

They were staring stupidly, jostling each other in an effort to see what was happening, hadn't yet realized how the tables had turned. Idiots! They wouldn't have lasted a day in the Bronze Age. 

Leap toward the one on the right – screwdriver boy? – and come up with a slash at the arm. Oh, perfect! Hand gone at the wrist, and he didn't notice anything but the impact yet. Shove him hard into his buddy, watch him try automatically to stab – and see the bewildered look in his eyes as he realized his weapon was gone, and his hand too. Now, overhead slash at dumb-buddy. Would he block? No, the idiot was looking at screwdriver-boy, trying to push him away. He raised his glance at the last second to see the sword coming down – and his eyes parted company as the blade landed squarely between them, obliterating his nose and splitting his skull. 

Now turn, even as they fell together, and look back at the leader. Was he going to get up and try-? 

No, he was down – and down permanently, barely twitching. 

So fast. It was over so fast. Hardly any more sport than mowing wheat. And so quiet: none of them had had time to scream. Barely time for that look, that surprised look that soon turned into wide-eyed terror or wide-mouthed pain – but there hadn't been time for that. Not all the satisfactions, no- 

But there was the blood, spreading ink-dark over the concrete as if to flood away its filth, spreading into dimly-gleaming pools, giving up that familiar burnt-iron smell like incense. And there were the bodies – the defeated – lying like peaceful islands in the spreading lakes of the all-covering blood. 

And there was the backwash of euphoria that always followed the outgoing tide of adrenalin, the ecstatic prize of victory, that almost sang in his veins: _I live! You're dead and I live!_

Methos breathed deeply, savoring the feeling, hoping it would – knowing it must – last him for a long, long time. He stood still, soaking in the sensation even though he knew the minutes were passing, waiting until the last echoes drained away. 

At last he sighed, then bent to wipe his sword on the nearest punk's jacket and sheathe it – he'd wash it later – and feel for the sheath under his coat. Time to go, time to resume precautions- 

The feel of another Immortal's presence shocked him rigid, the sword half-sheathed. No, it wasn't just any Immortal; he knew that signature-feeling. Gods please, no, it couldn't be – not here, not now, not like this, please— 

It was. The faint edge of distant streetlight illuminated Duncan MacLeod, standing at the mouth of the alley, looking straight into it, expression closed and grim. 

His arms were wrapped around him; he hadn't drawn his sword. That was reason for hope. 

Methos finished sheathing his sword, closed his coat and picked his way carefully down the alley towards MacLeod, scrambling for tactics. There had to be a way; he could find the right words. The world wasn't lost yet. 

'We've got to stop meeting like this,' he quipped, as he came into conversation-range. 

There was no answer. Not good. Try something simple. 

'Well, Mac, what brings you to this neck of the woods?' 

'Following you,' MacLeod admitted expressionlessly, without a trace of guilt. 'We have to talk.' 

'Right now?' Methos tried, attempting to slide past him. 'It's late, and frankly, I'd rather indulge in a cold beer, a hot shower, and then bed.' 

MacLeod forestalled him with a firm grip clamped to his upper arm, and repeated: 'We have to talk.' 

'If you must,' Methos grumbled. 'Lovely town, isn't it? And with such interesting wildlife. There's the Black-Maned Mugger, the Warbling Mugger, the Lesser Punk—' 

'And their predator.' MacLeod's grip didn't loosen by a hair as he guided Methos out of the alley and down the dark street. 

Gods, he knew. He'd seen it all. 

Methos was scrambling for an answer when both of them saw, ahead, a couple strolling up the street toward them. The woman's rumpled but gaudy dress all but labeled her as a prostitute, and the man with her could have been her latest client, but they were witnesses nonetheless. Blessing them for their presence, and their ears, Methos took the moment's respite to think of tactics, strategies, explanations- 

MacLeod tugged him toward the street and across it. 'My place is close,' was all he said. 

'As you wish,' Methos shrugged, the best he could do at the moment, and strolled along obediently. 

A block later, with the lighted sign for the cheap motel ahead, he tried: 'Kindly explain why you've been stalking me, Mac. It's not as if I hadn't gone out of town before.' 

'No, it isn't,' MacLeod surprised him by answering. 'But when you get tense and irritable and distracted for days beforehand, I have reason to think someone's after you. I followed you all over Seacouver for two days, then trailed you here.' 

'Staying carefully off my radar,' Methos tried to snap. 'I suppose you told yourself that was for my own good?' 

'You never ask for help,' said MacLeod, as if that were explanation enough. He towed Methos into the motel's courtyard and toward a numbered door. 'I didn't feel any whisper of another Immortal.' 

'And did it occur to you that my enemy might not have been an Immortal at all?' Methos tried, as MacLeod unlocked the door. The moment the words were out of his mouth he realized they were a mistake, too close to the truth. 

'That's what I thought.' MacLeod pushed Methos through the door, then closed it behind them. 'It isn't what I saw.' 

Methos could think of no answer, could only stand huddled in his coat, trying not to shiver, as MacLeod flicked on the light and carefully set the chain on the door. The light came from a standard table-lamp between the two standard motel beds, revealing a totally standard and forgettable room. The only sign of occupancy was the opened suitcase on the bureau. Feeling his legs shake, Methos shuffled to the nearer bed and dropped onto it. MacLeod went to the bureau, dug through the suitcase for a moment and came back with a nearly-full fifth of Scotch and two glasses. He sat down on the bed facing Methos, poured the two glasses full, took one and shoved the other in Methos' direction. 

'What I saw,' he resumed, 'was you, using yourself as bait.' 

Methos sighed, took the proffered glass and drank off the top quarter of its contents. His treacherous memory dredged up an image of grim-faced Inquisition judges. 

'I watched you scouting the territory.' MacLeod went on, 'Sizing up the locals, checking escape-routes. I noticed that you were bulkier beneath your coat than usual, and you moved a little differently. Is that body-armor under your sweater?' 

Methos nodded mutely, and tugged up one corner of the sweater to reveal the chainmail and the Kevlar under it. 

'You were hunting, and not for an Immortal,' MacLeod concluded. 'I wondered if some mortal was blackmailing you and you wanted to silence him, but no; you didn't go after any one mortal in particular.' He set down his glass and leaned forward, peering intently into Methos' face. 'What other purpose could you have in going down that same slummy street, long after dark, presenting yourself as an easy mark? You were mugger-hunting, Methos – and you didn't care which muggers you got. I've done my share of manhunting; do you think I didn't recognize what I saw?' 

For an instant Methos frantically wondered if he could challenge MacLeod's perceptions, lead him off into some safe digression, or lie outright. The odds of success were dismal. 

'Why did you do it, Methos?' The question left no room for evasions. 

Gods, there was only one trick left to try. Methos took a hasty sip of the Scotch. 'And if you don't like the answer, what will you do? Take my head?' 

'Don't be stupid. I already know I won't like the answer.' 

'Then what's the point of this inquisition? Another exercise in MacLeod the Righteous passing judgement?' 

'I'm not trying to judge.' MacLeod heaved a vast sigh and slumped as if painfully weary. 'I'm trying to understand. Can't you tell the difference, after all this time?' 

'Why in hell do you always want to understand?' Methos snapped, louder than he'd intended. 'Why can't you just accept things as they are? Why do you have to—' He managed to stop himself, realizing how stupid he sounded, and how guilty. 

MacLeod only spread his hands wide. 'You're my friend,' he said – yes, explaining everything. 

Right then, for no apparent reason, Methos recalled a line from an old popular song. _'Still I look to find a reason to believe.'_

An instant later, the sense became blindingly clear. He should have remembered that the one thing deeper than MacLeod's dutiful sense of virtue was his loyalty to his friends. For years, clear back to that nightmare business with Kronos, MacLeod had all but begged him – repeatedly – not to justify himself but to explain: to show the paths that had led him to his various and numerous sins, to show MacLeod reason for the trust he so badly wanted to give. The man was too honest with himself to believe simply because he wanted to believe; he needed the truth – and given that, he could find a way to forgive. 

Gods, there was no way around this. Nothing but the truth would serve, if he wanted to keep MacLeod. And he did want to keep MacLeod. One thing Methos didn't doubt was that the prize was worth the pain, even though he already knew – not looking too closely – how bad the pain could be. He'd have to go through with it. Another mouthful of Scotch helped. 

'I have to do it,' he mumbled, then forced himself to speak clearly. 'I suppose it's a compulsion. Every so often it builds up-I find myself beginning to hate them- That's when I know.' 

'Hate who?' MacLeod did a classic double-take as understanding clicked in. 'Mortals? All of them?!' 

'Generally. No one specific.' Methos stared into his glass as if it contained the secrets of the universe. 'Their stupidities, their cruelties- In earlier centuries, I'd go find the nearest war and throw myself into it-slaughter righteously for this or that king or country, until I was sated. Nowadays war is dangerous even to Immortals, so I do it on a smaller scale.' 

There. He'd said it. This was the turning-point, and MacLeod just might get up and grab his suitcase and walk away right now, walk away forever. When next they met, it might be across bared swords. 

MacLeod didn't move. 'You go mugger-hunting,' he said thoughtfully. 'Hang yourself out as bait, and kill whoever comes to take it.' 

'Yes.' Methos remembered earlier centuries, earlier ages, and knew he had one defense left. 'At least I've got it down to that, and no more than every ten years or so. Perhaps eventually-' 

MacLeod stared, thoughts clicking almost visibly behind his eyes, and finally came up with the one word Methos had hoped he wouldn't say. '-Horsemen-?' 

It struck like a spear of ice in the heart. Methos shuddered so hard that his half-emptied glass sloshed fluid onto his hands. 'Yes,' he whispered. 

Silence stretched very long. 

Then MacLeod's hands reached out and wrapped around Methos', stilling them. 'You aren't like that any more,' he said quietly, as if it were a mantra – or a prayer. 

Methos didn't move or speak. Aching miserable terror, knowledge of hideous memories waiting, and a desperate hope, held him frozen. 

MacLeod slowly loosened his grip, watching to see that the glass no longer shook. 'What made you change?' he asked gently. 'How did you-get it under this much control?' 

For a moment all Methos could think was: forgiven! Forgiven! He felt dizzy, and drew a hard breath to steady himself. 'Partly, I burned it out,' he managed. 'Tired of it. Partly, I had help. Friends, wise men, priests-' 

MacLeod made another of his intuitive leaps. 'Darius?!' 

'Yes,' Methos sighed in relief. 'He taught me to counterbalance-antidote for the hate. Study mortals, look for what I could admire – even love. Examples of wisdom and kindness- It helped. Reduced the need, gave me some control-' 

Reluctantly, he pulled his hands free of MacLeod's and took a leisurely mouthful of the drink. Whiskey, he remembered, had been used as an anesthetic before the uses of opium and morphine had been discovered. 

'Compulsion,' MacLeod murmured. 'It's well understood, these days. If you could see someone-' 

Methos caught his meaning, and a half-hysterical laugh forced its way out of his throat. 'I did 'see someone'! He helped. He-' No, no, stop there. Being in pain didn't excuse splashing it onto one's friends. Don't bring it up. No. 

'Could you go back to him?' MacLeod innocently walked into the quagmire. 

'No. He's dead.' Methos gulped down the last of the Scotch quickly and set down his glass. 'I expect I'll be some time looking for another. It's hard to find psychiatrists who understand the problems of Immortals.' 

'There are Immortal doctors,' MacLeod considered. 'I wonder if Grace Chantal knows of any Immortal psychiatrists—' He flinched as his damnable intuition made the unwanted connection. 'You were seeing-?' 

'Sean Burns,' Methos whispered, defeated. 'Duncan—' 

'Omigod,' MacLeod groaned, dropping his face to his hands. 'I took him away from you!' 

'Duncan, you couldn't help it. You were under something worse than a compulsion, yourself.' Please, gods, let him accept that- 

MacLeod visibly reined himself back under control, thrust his shame away and slogged onward in his search. 'The sacred spring,' he remembered. 'You knew about it. Did you ever-?' 

'Try it? Yes.' Methos glanced toward the ceiling, remembering. 'It purged away-other things, but this— It's not something outside myself. It's my own-my own reaction-' 

Fear stabbed him again, warning of an icy and terrible knowledge. Sean Burns had tried to dig it out, and might have succeeded if he'd lived. He would have done it gently, minimizing the pain. Instead, the discoverer had been Cassandra – and she'd wanted him to suffer. She'd made him remember, and keep remembering, his reason for hating mortals. 

The terror leaped at him in a memory of dun-yellow light. 

'Carchemish! The temple—' he heard himself howl, in Sumerian, as his body flinched so violently that he fell sideways. No, no, push that memory away, to a distance at least, don't fall into it, don't go back there- 

'Methos!' a familiar voice reached to him, a lifeline. He grew aware that MacLeod was no longer on the opposite bed but sitting beside him, wrapping strong arms around his shoulders and pulling him upright, pulling him close. He sagged against that solid body, despising his weakness but unable to fight it, panting as if he'd been running for a mile. The memory still had its claws in him. 

'Methos,' MacLeod asked gently, 'what was it? What did those words mean?' 

Sumerian, Methos remembered, was not a language MacLeod knew. Come back up time, search through forgotten patterns of words, find a longer-lasting tongue— No, don't think of that word! —Language. Latin- He found words. 

'-templum-Carcemisi-deus ero-' 

'You were the god?' MacLeod struggled, in rusty Latin. 'Why was it-so terrible?' 

No, no, he didn't want to remember this! He couldn't stop. 'I bleed,' he groaned. 'I bleed and heal. I bleed to death, and revive. They cut, and I bleed. I bleed-and they drink-' 

'Jesus!' MacLeod whispered, and held him tighter, as if trying to make a shield of his body. 'Why did you stand for it? Why did you stay?' 

'Chained!' Methos whimpered, remembering. 'Naked-between the pillars-' The memories leapt and clawed at him like a swarm of rats, too many to fight off, threatening to drag him under. 

'God,' MacLeod groaned for him. 'How long-?' 

'Generations-' Year after year passing into a swirl of time, highlighted by particular incidents, sacred cruelties, taking more and more from him. '—more than blood—' 

A specific memory pounced, wringing a thin scream out of him. The featureless sound was so horribly familiar— Methos slapped a hand to his mouth and pressed the fingers inside, feeling, making certain- Yes! Yes, it was still there, healed and whole, as it had been for these last 3000 years. Yes, yes- The terror receded like an exhausted wave, leaving him trembling in its wake. 

'Methos?' That gentle voice drew him out, pleading for answers as always. A warm hand tugged at his wrist, not demanding, only asking. 

Methos pulled his hand away from his mouth and felt his last barriers fall. He couldn't stop this now, had to say it regardless of consequences. Whispered. 

'They cut off my tongue!' 

MacLeod flinched hard against him, gasping. 'Your tongue?! But you— How?!' 

'Twenty years to grow back-' 

'Grow back- Severed parts grow back?' MacLeod's voice was startled with wonder; clearly, he'd never seen or heard of this. 'It just takes time?' 

Methos was breathing in helpless sobs now, shaken hopelessly by the long slow horror. 'Twenty years- For twenty years I couldn't talk, Duncan!' If only MacLeod could understand the stark misery of that. 'Nothing. No one. Except-' 

'Except?' MacLeod pleaded, eager for any flicker of hope in the hideous story. 

Maybe this would make him understand, at last. 'I could write. Kronos could read.' 

'Kronos!' MacLeod whispered, enlightened and appalled. 

'He saved me from the temple. Took care of me. Gave me vengeance.' Oh yes, and so much more! Could this Highland innocent truly understand? 

'Is that why you-?' MacLeod whispered, amazed. 

'Yes. I would have done anything for him. And I did.' 

'Anything-' The way MacLeod said it suggested a universe of meaning. 

Gods, he still didn't understand, could see the pattern only at a distance, as an intellectual exercise. MacLeod had suffered horrors, but they'd never truly broken him, never driven him mad with stark despair. There were parts of himself, his integrity, that he'd never given up; he simply couldn't comprehend what it was like. 

He would have to hear the rest of it. 

'Not just my tongue,' Methos groaned, not even trying to control his shaking. 'They-they took my-' He couldn't say the word. Jump ahead, to the result. 'For sixty years, all I could have was-Kronos, mounting me.' 

It took a whole ten seconds for MacLeod to connect those fragments and see their meaning. He gasped hoarsely, went rigid for an instant, then darted his hand between Methos' thighs and pressed thoughtlessly, searching, finding. He whispered something in Gaelic, too fast for comprehension. 

'Yes,' Methos panted. 'They grew back. Sixty years.' 

MacLeod belatedly realized that he was, in fact, groping another man's crotch. He pulled his hand away, gave a quick apologetic pat to one thigh, and wrapped his arm chastely around Methos' shoulders. 'Holy Mary, mother of God-' he murmured, in Latin, his voice shaken and full of unshed tears. Then he turned his face and kissed Methos' forehead. 

Methos sagged bonelessly in that grip, the touch melting him. 'Do you understand?' he pleaded. 'Kronos-why I could never-' 

'Yes! God, he saved you from that!' Now MacLeod was trembling as full understanding worked through him. 

'-why I hated mortals, wanted to kill them all-or at least clear them away, no mortals within three days' ride of me-' 

'You were terrified of them.' MacLeod's intuition stabbed to the heart of the horror, cut the Gordian knot of tangled memories, needs, reactions. 'And no wonder!' 

'Yes-' Methos realized he was sobbing like a child, couldn't help it, and didn't try. 'They broke me. Driven mad- Hated them! Centuries- Sometimes it comes back. I have to-' 

'At least you can choose the guilty,' MacLeod whispered, and rocked him gently. 

'The greedy, bloodthirsty-like those priests-' 

'I see it. I see it-' MacLeod eased his grip, and gently pulled off Methos' coat. 

'I think-the memories surface, in dreams, set it off-but I don't remember-' Methos knew he was babbling, but it made no difference now. He was forgiven. He was understood. The relief was so fierce he thought he might faint under it. 

'I understand. Misery enough to bite for a thousand years, or two thousand-' MacLeod tugged away the bulky sweater, stared for a moment at the chainmail shirt, then found the catches and began unfastening them. 'Just keep reminding yourself that it's over, and you're safe now.' 

Safe? Well, yes – as safe as any Immortal could be, outside of holy ground. No one knew he was here. No one could get through that door easily – let alone past Duncan MacLeod. Methos let himself be handled, moved, undressed like a doll, sinking into the unspeakable comfort of those simple actions. He was still weeping, and wondered if he'd ever stop. 'I wasn't always like this-' He couldn't stop the flood of words, either. 'I remember a time before, a better life. I was a decent man, then.' 

'And you are now.' MacLeod knelt before him like a body-servant, and tugged off his shoes. 

'Then it all went to hell.' Memories surged through him, vast as a great river – the Nile, or the Euphrates. 'The world ended. The old world- The Age of Iron came. I couldn't stop it, none of us could. Even Nature turned on us. Volcanoes, floods- Everything smashed, burned, washed away-' 

He lay back on the bed and let MacLeod strip him down to his shorts, not caring if this implied anything. Tears covered his cheeks, unnoticed. 

'I wandered, stunned by my losses. Town to town, a traveling scribe, never settling. Didn't dare-connect-feel-too close-' 

'I understand.' MacLeod rolled a little away and began pulling off his own clothing. 'Moving like a cloud's shadow across the land, afraid to be known.' 

Yes, yes, it was exactly like that! MacLeod knew. Thank all the gods that ever were. 'I thought I'd be safe in a city. Then a robber stabbed me. I revived. A priest saw- Oh, gods-' Here came the shaking again. 

'Hush. It's over. They can't touch you anymore.' MacLeod tugged down the bedcovers and slid Methos under them, propped him up on the pillows and handed him the remaining glass of Scotch. 'You're safe now,' he repeated. 

Methos clutched the glass and managed to hold it steady enough to drink from it. He scarcely felt the bite of the liquor, but the taste was comforting in its familiarity. 

'Safe- As safe as we can be. But they're everywhere. If they ever learn- They'll do worse than kill us, Duncan. Worse! I know!' 

'Shh. They won't find out.' MacLeod slid under the covers with him and pulled them up to his chin. 

'It gets harder every year. They're so obsessed with keeping records, keeping track of everybody-' Methos drained the glass and let MacLeod take it from his quivering hands. 

'Records can be falsified. Millions of people fall through the cracks, all the time,' MacLeod soothed, sliding a comforting arm across Methos' chest. 'Baffle them with their own paper. I have half-a-dozen identities ready and waiting; you must have more.' 

'Yes, dozens,' Methos remembered. His breathing eased as the old panic began sliding away. 'Keep your head down. Low profile. Be two or three forgettable people at once, so you can move between them. Shed old identities like snakeskins-' 

'Ah.' MacLeod's arm tightened briefly. 'It was never just other Immortals that you were hiding from, was it?' 

'No.' Methos shivered again. The threat was always out there; he knew he'd have to kill mortals again some time, if only to keep the secret. At least it need not be for compulsion, not again, not for a long time, please. 

And he had a protector now. MacLeod knew his secret, forgave and understood. 

Impulsively, Methos turned toward MacLeod and hugged him hard, eliciting a surprised grunt – and then an almost shyly returned embrace. He heaved a vast sigh, and pressed closer. The helpless weeping was coming again, but this time its source wasn't the age-old misery; it was relief so profound as to be ecstatic. 

_I'm safe. I'm loved._

Gods, yes, that was so much better than the aftermath of slaughter! 

If only he could keep this, he might not have to go hunting again for a long, long time. If only- 

Nothing was certain in this world, but – as the wise old Greeks had said, and made into legend – there was always hope. 

\--END-- 

* * *

© 2003   
Please send comments to the author! 

02/18/2004 

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